Sponsors.

I have been thinking about what companies sponsor my fat. I mean really. Lets think about this. Is it Pizza Hut Stuffed Crust Pizza? Check.
Hostess (fill in the blank)? Check.
Twizzlers. Check.
Black Forrest Brand Gummy Bears. Rodger that.
Any thing with "Gummy" in the name? Bingo.

I think I will make shirts to run in that have a bunch of corporate logos on the back and claim that they have encouraged my fat to fuel my runs. It is a symbiotic sacred relationship that most Americans will agree with, let alone set down their Hebrew National Nally Chilly Dog with Extra onions and Sauerkraut to give me an Amen.

I don't think that any of the aforementioned brands claim to cause instant skinniness by partaking of them. I don't think that Hostess Raspberry filled doughnuts cause weight loss... Pick your poison and it will get stored somewhere on your body, and in my case be sacrificed to the flaming pit of desire to run faster harder and reach the end of the run before the ambulance or the Twinkie The Kid lookalike.

This morning was a glorious gut run. I was wondering what good thing I had done, or old person I have helped that allowed me to go 5 miles in under 50 minutes. But I must have been good. Mostly because before the dawn cascaded over the mountains and filled the canyon with a blaze of glory, blue flowers, miniature yellow sun flowers turning their heads toward the dawn, there was a fat man. Not any ordinary man - one powered by desire to conquer himself.

To sit his flat cracker butt down in the chair of the running tutor and learn about himself. How deep is the well of his desire? How much power can you push from your soul into the rubber on the pavement? Only the fat man knows. Each step is one closer to meeting his own personal goal. Dig down. Dig deep. The run awaits.